She told us that he’d called her a witch. She kept rubbing her eyes as she said it. Witch. We knew him a little. He was a dry man, clever, confident, I think. Sharp, but he could be kind. I liked him. It comforted me to think he was there, downstairs. But we’d heard the sharp tongue he’d used towards her. She seems unemotional, self-sufficient and strong. But perhaps not. A no-nonsense woman who is still grieving over the unkindness of her son. She says that his daughter was with him when he died and that he’d told her to give them all his love, especially his mother. She wants to take heart in this but says she cannot trust the daughter is telling the truth. She rubs her eyes again. Names become befuddled, daughters are mixed up with granddaughters, husbands with sons.
The more time I spend with her, drawing her, the more tenderly towards her I feel.
